A few months ago, I was suddenly plagued by knee pain so sharp, it felt like someone jamming a lava-hot ice pick into the back of my kneecap. Not a metaphorical ice pick. A very real, very angry one.
Now, I do have 52 steps (yes, I’ve counted) to my classroom and no elevator, so maybe I should’ve seen it coming. But still, the betrayal! My knee and I had a longstanding agreement: I walk, it cooperates. Clearly, that contract had expired.
Excelsior Orthopedics gave me a knee brace that was... less than flattering. Let’s just say it gave off strong “stormtrooper on casual Friday” vibes. But it got me through the worst of it, hobbling and all, until I could talk myself into doing what I was absolutely dreading: getting a cortisone shot.
Now, let me make one thing clear—I hate needles. Hate. I don’t understand how drug addicts do it. I have to psych myself up for a flu shot, and those are practically mosquito bites. The idea of a big ol’ needle going directly into my knee joint? I needed some serious self-talk. Like, two solid months of “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.”
Everyone I know who’s had a cortisone shot told me the same thing: “It hurts like hell, but you’ll feel better.” And then, just to really seal the deal, they'd elaborate on exactly how it hurts like hell. So I walked into the appointment convinced that Dr. Zinno was about to stab me with a horse tranquilizer-sized needle while grinning like, “This won’t hurt a bit!” and laughing like Vincent Price in a black and white horror movie.
And since I drive a stick, I was also worried I’d be physically unable to drive myself home. Plan B: Uber.
But plot twist! The appointment was ridiculously fast. I walked in, barely sat down before they called me up to pay my co-pay. Then I sat for about three minutes (just enough time for a mild panic spiral) before I was called back.
The nurse asked some basic questions and left. I resumed chanting my “I can do this” mantra. Dr. Zinno came in and asked if I was ready. I told him flat-out that I was terrified. He smiled. (Of course he did.)
I refused to look at the needle. I squeezed my eyes shut so tight I probably looked like a toddler pretending to disappear. He said he was going to freeze the area first to minimize pain and sprayed this icy blast that made me jump a full six feet off the table. He and the nurse laughed like this was a sitcom, which, okay, let’s be honest, it kind of was.
And then... he gave me the shot.
No pain. Just pressure. A little weird squishy feeling in my joint. But not the medieval torture session I was promised by literally everyone I know. I was completely shocked. I even asked Dr. Zinno why people love to terrify others about this stuff. I mean, really! I was anxious enough.
I checked out, got my post-care sheet (ice and rest for 24 hours), and went home. The knee felt a little sore by the end of the day, and still does today, but it’s nothing compared to what it was. I haven’t tested it on stairs yet, but I no longer feel like I’m being stabbed by a vengeful kitchen utensil.
So if you’re considering a cortisone shot, here’s my advice:
Go straight to Dr. Zinno.
He says he’s done billions, that's billions with a B, and honestly, I believe him. He might laugh at you, but he won’t hurt you.
And if your knee suddenly turns on you like mine did? Don’t wait two months like I did. Your stairs (and your sanity) will thank you.
